Prison of Flesh
by MetalWolfMelody
Summary: Neal's life has been defined by compromise. Included was release from prison, with a tracking anklet attached to him at all times. As this negotiation has not been without its own failures, a new agreement is settled upon; Neal will shed his tracking anklet and take up a new method of identification, or go back to prison. How far will Neal go to rid himself of this new burden?
1. Chapter 1

For the first time in recent memory, Peter Burke felt pity for Neal Caffrey. And considering the situation, how could he not? The usually suave man was sitting in the office chair across from him, his eyes welling up with tears. To see such a thing on the face of a man usually so composed was utterly unnerving. This man was renowned for his neutrality, even in the face of death, but some of Peter's words were enough to bring him to tears on this dark occasion.

"Peter, please tell me there's another way" Neal rasped, and it was painfully obvious that he was fighting back the onslaught of emotion ravaging him inside. Swallowing heavily, Peter shook his head, eyeing the manila folder on the desk as though it were some sort of loathsome beast. It took a moment for him to find the words, and when they left his mouth, they were frighteningly detached.

"This is a non-negotiable. It's this, or going back to prison. I know you don't want that" Peter encouraged, knowing that the attempt to brighten the situation was weak. In fact, it was naught but a painful failure, as Neal lowered his head into his hands, shielding his eyes from the agent as he blinked back the tears that had been threatening to spill. Through the barrier his hands had created, Neal gave another soft response, this one tainted with confusion and anger.

"It's not about what I want. It's that I can't. I can't go back to prison. I'll die in there. But if this happens, the world is going to be my prison. They're…" he trailed off there, unable to finish the sentence. Instead of finishing it for him, Peter let the silence hang in the air like a heavy fog, the weight sinking down on his shoulders while Neal pressed his forehead into his palms.

"They're going to take away any last freedom I have" Neal suddenly cut in quietly, raising his head to look Peter in the eyes. At the sight, Peter was tempted to flinch back. The creases below Neal's eyes were stained with moisture, and the whites of his eyes were laced with bright red streaks. There it was again, burning in Peter's gut with undying persistence: pity, an unbearable amount of pity.

"You won't even feel it" Peter attempted to soothe, knowing that his voice sounded like a mother comforting an ailing child. This pathetic phrase was easily identifiable as bullshit, and the agent knew it. It was going to hurt. It was going to hurt a lot. Perhaps it would be the emotional burden that was the most painful at all. Grinding his teeth together, Neal shook his head, another wave of denial obviously washing over him.

"I don't want to be some guinea pig for the federal government. I'm already your little bitch, running around like a dog on a leash. I'm not a lab animal" growled the con man, scratching the nails of one hand against the back of the other, as though he were trying to distract himself from the impending reality. Peter's stomach flip-flopped, and he realized that it was just as agonizing to watch this man be faced with the change of a lifetime. A man that he had grown so begrudgingly close to was suffering, and there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

"I'll be there with you the whole time" he tried to comfort again, to which Neal just scoffed, running another hand under his eye, wicking away the remnants of a single tear.

"Of course you will. You're the one holding the rope tied around my neck. I don't have a choice in whether you're there or not. They said that I'm the dog, they also said that you're my master. They said nothing about friends, Peter. That was never part of the deal."

"You know that's not what I meant" Peter hastily tried to remedy, but the damage was done. Neal stood up, turning his back on the agent, taking a step towards the door.

"Whatever you have or haven't meant" Neal hissed, putting a hand on the doorknob and turning it, "you can't make this one better. You can't straighten your tie and say 'sorry Neal, messed this one up.' You can't call someone and ask for a favor. You're out of favors, and so am I. Call me once you have the date, sir. Until then, I'm going to be taking sick leave."

He walked out the door then, slamming it behind him as he went. The venomous words that Caffrey had left hanging in the air were dripping with acidic malice, enough to sting at Peter's heart. Although the first thought that came to his mind was the urge to tell Neal that he didn't have such a thing as sick leave, he realized that it was the last thing that he really wanted to say. What he wanted to do more than anything was to apologize, to try and explain that it was far beyond his control, that he really did care. He wanted to cry out to the man that had just left, tell Neal that he was more than a dog, more than just a CI; he was a valuable, complex person, one that Peter genuinely cared about.

Instead of voicing this, he just watched his most valuable asset, and one of his closest friends, storm out of his office without so much as a goodbye. Perhaps it was because adequate words were lost in the face of a brewing tragedy. Perhaps it was because just like Neal, he was suffering a terrible shock at the fate that awaited them both.

Now, given the privacy of his solitude, Peter grabbed the folder again, and flipped it open in his lap. The first page was a contract of some sort of political bullshit, signed in a thick blue gel pen by someone so far above Peter's paygrade he couldn't recognize the name. His own name was somewhere in the mess of words that some lawyer had orchestrated with their poisonous touch, written plainly alongside Neal's own identification.

This order declared a new measure to be taken, one that extended beyond the tracking anklet that Neal still sported on a nearly daily basis. This executive decision would reduce the need to take the anklet off for more sensitive operations, and reduce the need to gain some sort of approval for every action that extended beyond Neal's assigned radius. It would also serve to reduce the trivial things, such as the chaffing that Neal never ceased to whine about, it would cease the questioning metal detectors, and the gazes from onlookers who managed to catch a glimpse of it.

The solution was a simple one; a state of the art implant that would work as a tracking and identification device, similar to a digital chip implanted in a cat or dog. This one was slightly different; it was larger, and sported some of the first GPS capabilities that were able to reach through human skin. This model had gone through trials, and had recently gained approval for the use in human candidates.

Due to the size, there would be a surgery, one that included the use of general anesthesia. The procedure was simple enough; a deep incision in Neal's side, placement of the device, and then a closure of the area. It would be active immediately, and would power itself for a number of years without failure or interruption to other bodily functions. Just plugging the ID number into the proper server would give Neal's immediate location, accessible from either a phone or computer.

It was the perfect solution. It was also perfectly despicable.

There was an ultimatum attached; Neal undergoes the surgery, or goes back to prison for the rest of the foreseeable future, even beyond his original sentencing. Peter had read the papers a hundred times, trying to figure out whether or not it was legal to force such a thing on a human being, regardless of being a felon or not. Yet those same damned lawyers had even figured a few laws into their handiwork, ones that stated why it was clearly admissible to treat Neal like nothing more than a piece of property.

Before he had even shown it to Neal, Peter had argued with anyone that would give him half of a minute, he had made phone calls, and each time he had been shut down. Hearing it in such repetition had grown harder and harder, but in the end, he knew that he wasn't the one that had to live with the reality of the situation. He wouldn't be the one face down on an operating table, having a foreign device implanted into his body. He wouldn't be the one with that itching beneath his skin, knowing that Big Brother wasn't just watching him, it was within him every step of the way.

He couldn't even work his way one page into the packet this time without putting it down. All that he could see when he closed his eyes were Neal's red-rimmed eyes, the inexplicable amount of pain in the visage of a man famed for his cheerful grin and game-changing poker face. Neal had openly shown his agony, for the first time in an unbearably long amount of time, and to the very man that he felt was holding him prisoner.

Peter could hardly blame him; he was about to be put in a different sort of prison, and the key was going to be embedded within his flesh. It was a sick twist of fate, and one that was approaching at the speed of a flying bullet. There was a deadline stuck amidst the rest of the bureaucratic disaster on paper; by the end of the month, Caffrey was going to be tagged like an animal, or he would be put behind bars once more.

Also buried amongst the papers was a number to call to schedule the surgery, and the location of the nearest hospital. It was sickeningly sweet, the way that one of the more personal papers had urged Peter to address the situation with urgency, but that it should be approached on a timeline that best suited the bureau's needs. There was no lack of clarity; this was going to be done, and it was going to be done soon, if Neal treasured any last sliver of his freedom.

The bitter irony arose once more; there was no option that actually allowed for freedom. He was going to be put behind some sort of bars or another, one option had the bars made of steel, and the other made of flesh. If Peter himself was given the same decision, he didn't know what he would choose. In fact, for a moment, he toyed with the thought of death being a more preferable option. Biting down on his lip, he hoped that Neal wouldn't feel the same.

With some degree of hesitance, Peter opened that folder carrying the death sentence once more, and flipped through the pages for the number. The current case was close to a wrap, but Peter knew what would happen; Neal was about to close in on himself, and become no more productive than any other agent, possibly even less so. It would be most efficient, and be less painful, for this turn of events to occur sooner rather than later.

With bile rising in his throat, Peter dialed the number, closing his eyes in the face of it all. He was about to make the call that would change a man's life forever, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 **For reference, this story is set at some point in time in the middle of Season 2. Thank you very much for taking the time to read this story; I hope that you enjoyed. If you have any comments, concerns, questions, or critique, feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM. Thank you all again, enjoy the rest of your day!**


	2. Chapter 2

Making the appointment was surprisingly easy, so easy that it was painful. It was a mere five days after their initial meeting on the subject that they were sitting in a hospital room, counting down the minutes until their lives were shattered into fragments. Neal, for the first time that Peter could remember, was fidgeting nervously. It was unusual to see the man in anything but a smart suit, the formal attire the only true compliment to his form. Yet, just as his freedom, such privilege had been stripped away, and now he was donning a light blue hospital gown. Sitting against pale sheets, his eyes looked like an ever deeper shade of blue, like the surface of a troubled ocean.

There was still a silence spanning between the two, one that had yet to be breached by anything more than the usual formalities. Peter wondered if it was anger, or if it were fear, that had rendered Neal so silent over the course of the past week. Of all things, Neal had stayed true to his word; he hadn't come into the office once since his unfortunate sentencing. Perhaps it was his utter absence that had amplified the lack of communication between partners, but on top of the physical absence was the lack of phone calls. Even when Neal wasn't needed at the Bureau, even when Peter was home with El, one of them at least reached out to call. And each time that Peter had, he was sent to the familiar voicemail message, leaving him frustrated and empty. No amount of begging had brought Neal to call back, not even some of the most desperate pleas that Peter could remember making.

Even now, in the hospital, there was nothing but silence. No words spanned this gap that had been created by an unfortunate government mandate; just the shuffling of fabric on fabric filled the air as Neal shifted his weight around. As an act of kindness, Peter had removed the tracking anklet earlier that morning, an act more solemn than it was freeing. Neal had been silent for that as well; once the burden was removed, he had only run his hands reluctantly over the skin before lowering the pant leg and staring off into the distance, a small crease working its way into the pale skin of his forehead.

What had surprised Peter most of all was how docile Neal had been led to this place, like a lamb to slaughter, not blinking as the blade made its way down. Peter had been monitoring the current tracking device with a religious vigilance, prepared to send a team out if Neal so much as shifted his anklet or put a foot outside of his radius. There was nothing Neal how to do except run, run far away from his troubles. Yet each of the last five days he had stayed within a block of his apartment, most often within the apartment, not so much as moving from one location for hours at a time. And when it came time to travel to the hospital, Neal had gone quietly, not so much as a whimper of protest.

It was bitter to imagine that this would be the most free that Neal could ever be again; lying in a hospital bed, nearly naked, completely defenseless, about to be subject to a near inhumane torment. Peter couldn't help but blame himself for allowing it to reach this point. It was as though he hadn't fought hard enough, hadn't done enough, even those his hands had practically been tied. He knew he was a disappointment, and he knew that he had failed one of the most important people in his life.

A nurse walked in, a smile on her face as she pushed a wheelchair into the room. This was the first arrival that so much as prompted Neal to raise his head, those hollow eyes gazing at the woman without any indication of his current emotional state. Both men in the room knew what the arrival meant, for it signaled the start of something terrible. It was time for Neal to go into surgery.

Neal's hands gripped the sheets on the bed until his knuckles were white, and Peter could see the lump in his throat as he swallowed. This was watching a man be led off to slaughter. Clambering out of the bed with much less grace than Neal usually carried, the CI eased himself into the chair, sparing the nurse any charming smiles he would have usually pulled.

Peter tried to come up with something to say, trying to spit out one of the phrases that he had spent hours agonizing over, as though they would serve as reconciliation. Through all of the heartfelt apologies, the confessions of friendship, as Neal was about to be wheeled away, there was only one thing that Peter could manage to speak without his voice cracking.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

That was apparently not enough to warrant a response. Neal let his head hang down, hands scratching at one another in a disturbing new habit. And within those next few seconds, he was gone, the mop of dark brown hair disappearing behind the door without a whisper.

Peter wanted to retreat in on himself, and be left alone, but Neal's presence was quickly replaced. A tall man walked in, a small, false smile on his face. He extended a hand, which Peter took begrudgingly.

"I assume that you're Agent Burke" the man quipped, as though he had read the quote straight from a book. Nodding, Peter casually pulled the badge from his jacket pocket and flashed it subtly before returning it. With a brief smile, slightly more genuine, the man continued.

"I will be the surgeon working on Mr. Caffrey today. My specialty is usually based on repairing internal damage, but I have been trained in this procedure recently. We already have the device prepped in the back, and there should be no complications with the surgery. But, if you don't mind, I do have a question. From what I understand, Mr. Caffrey is a criminal. Are there any extra precautions that should be taken?" he questioned, and Peter felt a tic under his left eye as these words were spoken. Adressing the surgeon curtly, Peter shook his head with his negative response.

"He is of no threat to you, or anyone else at this hospital. He is merely completing a trial on this new device. And for your information, he's not a criminal. He's my partner. I expect for you to treat him as such. He's a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and his well-being is of the utmost importance. I was assured that you were the best for the job, and that's what I would expect to see" he responded, trying to keep the faint growl from his voice. It was surprising how defensive he had become, but seeing the surgeon balk was enough for Peter to reign himself back under control. Somehow, the other man still maintained a smile, however wary it seemed.

"Rest assured, Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey is in good hands. I promise to return him safely, and that I will perform this surgery to the best of my ability. He should be returned to your company within the next four hours. It was a pleasure meeting you, Agent Burke" the surgeon finished, and with a final handshake, he departed, leaving Peter in complete solitude.

All that the agent had the strength to do in that moment was to sit back down, press his eyes into the heels of his hands, and bite back the tears that rose as quickly as the lump in his throat. Thinking of Neal on the operating table was a thought that was nearly unbearable, so instead, he thought on what would come next.

 **-0-0-0-0-0-**

While Peter could have returned to work for the duration of the operation, he elected to stay within the hospital walls, eagerly awaiting the conclusion of the procedure. It was supposed to be relatively short, with only half a day of recovery time. The surgery itself would take approximately an hour, and the next few hours would only be used to monitor Neal's body to ensure there were no complications. Before night fell he would be on his way, back in Peter's car, dressed in his suit, headed home. There would be nothing to guide him except for a bottle of pain medication that would likely be gone within days, and a small scar left in the wake.

Peter didn't know what would happen from there. Would things return to normal? What could a new normal possibly be? Their routine would be forever fractured by this federally mandated personal invasion, and there would always be a reminder that Neal was not the same, he would never be the same again. There was no way that either of them would ever forget. Peter would remember every single time that he opened his phone, checking Neal's location, and he would know that blinking dot came from a source buried within his friend's body.

They said that it was painless. And by 'they', Peter was pondering on the panel that had mandated such a thing actually be put into effect. There had been a soothing page of propaganda for Neal to read over, which Peter had failed to give to the CI altogether. He figured that such a thing, as elementary as it was, would have been completely insulting to such a genius. Instead, he had given the basic details, as bluntly as could be, as an act of common courtesy. The implant, about the side of a human thumbnail, was supposedly entirely safe, and would fail to hurt Neal in any way once he was recovered from surgery.

The physical pain was the last thing that they needed to worry about, and Peter was able to understand that well. There had been no consideration of the emotional impact such an item would have, especially on a criminal that was so self-reliant and already reluctant to sport an external tracking device. Instead of making things easier on anyone, this forced alteration would only fracture the only 'normal' Neal knew to pieces, potentially damaging his psyche

While Peter could have pondered on this for an indefinite amount of time, and would continue to over the following days, his train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a man in scrubs striding into the waiting room.

"Caffrey" the voice called out, looking over the chart in his hands, as though he were awaiting family to stand. Peter stood, and walked over towards him, knowing well what news was about to be delivered. True to his estimates, the man gave a small smile, and a curt nod in the place of an introduction.

"His procedure went well, and we are taking him back to his room for recovery right now. There were no complications, and the anesthesia should be wearing off within the hour. Additional instructions regarding care and discharge will be provided by the doctor, who will be in to see you shortly. He's going to room C345, which is just down the hall from here." To this, Peter nodded his thanks, having expected nothing less than smooth sailing this far in. In itself, the procedure was minimally complicated, and was said to have almost a null chance for anything to go awry.

He made his way down to the recovery room, and walking in, saw a sight that was deceivingly peaceful. Neal's body was laid on a hospital bed, sheets pulled up around him, his eyes closed in what was apparent bliss. As much as he wished it was such a simple action as sleep that let Neal look so childlike, but rather, it was a drug induced unconsciousness that rendered him so defenseless.

Fortunately, Peter did not have long to ponder on these thoughts. It was only half of an hour later when Neal started groaning, his body shifting back and forth on the bed, no words forming through the animalistic grunts. Peter watched closely, entranced by the metamorphosis. It was like watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon, and as Neal writhed subtly in the bed, he moved his arms, his eyelids flickering as he fought to open them.

Another minute of this semi-silence passed before the transformation was complete, and Neal opened his eyes, blinking against the bright lights that shone from overhead. There were more rasps and groans before words filled the air, which was to be expected. Once Neal had his wits completely about himself, he looked at Peter, and then down at his chest. With a lazy hand, he gently traced a spot on his side through the hospital gown, letting his fingers dance over the fabric as not to disturb it as he blinked.

A wry smile came over the CI's face, and he propped himself up a bit more than the pillows had, still casting a look over at Peter. Although the agent wanted to say something, he knew that he had to wait. There were no words that he could say, because he already knew all the answers. It was the smile, hollow, empty, that was most disturbing. When Neal spoke, his voice was raspy, and just as hollow as his visage.

"Hey, no chaffing."

At those words, Peter fought the urge to throw up. He could see the outline of the thick gauze bandage at the open-fronted gown slid open, showing not just Neal's sculpted body, but the stark white of the doctor's handiwork.

"How are you feeling?" Peter managed to question, trying to put a smile on his face, knowing however well that Neal would see right through it. But to his relief, the CI played along for half a moment, his eyes flickering as they always did when they played this game.

"I'm feeling just fine, and how about you? Chewed your way through a pile of emails when I was under, I'm guessing?" Neal inquired this with a cock of his head, voice regaining its strength.

The phrase was fraught with normality, and for a moment Peter was taken away from where they sat. Then he smelled the chemicals in the air, felt the tiles beneath his feet, uncomfortable and foreign. And he remembered where he was, living out an atrocity, with the victim sitting in front of him. Still, he swallowed, giving his own weak reply, putting up the front that he felt he needed to.

"Just a few. Mostly I've been waiting to see how you've done. Think you'll be ready to go by tonight, or do we need to extend the visit?" This question was meant as a kindness, but already the glint had left Neal's eyes, leaving them disturbingly dull and unfocused. Perhaps more unsettling was the small smile that crept over the CI's face, like that of a maniac before he committed a brutal, senseless act. Peter had seen it before on the job, but seeing such a charming face so devoid of life was foreign, terrifying. The words that Neal uttered next were just as hollow as his visage, despite their light tone.

"Keep me here as long as you need to, officer. I'm afraid that I've locked myself up, and swallowed the key. But I can't cough this one up for you, no sir, not this one. It appears that I'm going to be here for quite a while."

Then, as if he had just told the most hilarious joke in the world, Neal burst into laughter, his chest shaking, surely pulling at his stitches. Perhaps what was the worst for Peter to bear was the fact that Neal couldn't meet his eyes.

 **Wow! Thank you all so much! The support I have received on this story is overwhelming. Thank you so much to everyone who favorited, followed, and reviewed this story. Thank you also for taking the time out of your day to read this! I hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Chapter 3

Returning to some shade of normal had been easier than Peter had expected. Unlike his worst fears, normalcy was not completely shattered; it was merely scratched and warped. The scratches, just as on the back of a CD, were noticeable, but most often bearable within day to day routine. In fact, they were even beginning to fade into the grey monotony of regularity. Despite this, Peter couldn't help but wonder if they were still stuck in the transitional phase, and the worst was yet to come, with these new and subtle changes becoming insufferable.

The first change was in Neal himself, and all of his usual associated behaviors. There were no late mornings in to the office, the bag of a local café clutched in his hand as he tried to hurry to his desk before someone could notice his tardiness. Instead, the CI was terrifyingly punctual, sitting at his desk each morning without so much as some sort of diversion for coffee of breakfast. Most unusual of all was the lack of protest to the office coffee that Neal had always declared as an equivalency to rat poison. Dutifully routine, Neal had been fetching his morning coffee from the office, sipping it without so much as wrinkling his nose.

The next feature to make itself apparent was the silence. There were fewer unexpected visits to other parts of the building, fewer morning smiles, and fewer loud jokes from the usually suave man. He had failed to chase after any women in the office, and from what Peter had seen out in the field, the usual charming smile was reserved for only false reassurances. Drawn within himself, Neal had boxed himself into the small desk where he clicked reliably away at the keys, head down, eyes not straying from his respective space.

What was perhaps the most concerning of all was the odd new habit that Peter had first noticed in his office when he and Neal had discussed this new arrangment. Any time that the CI did not have his hands busy with an act on the computer or on some other task, he was scratching his fingernails across the backs of his hands and up towards his wrist, quickly turning them red. In the few days since his release from the hospital, it was easy to see that those regions of skin were rapidly becoming raw, yet Neal's habit gave no indication of easing up any time soon.

There had been not a word from the CI regarding his pain, even when Peter had questioned. The only response had been a smile, terribly false, and a canned quip. "I'm fine, thank you." If he had to hear that one more time, Peter swore he would snap. He could already feel the playfulness slipping away from Neal, those little quirks that made the man who he was. Life was draining from his eyes, and there was nothing that Peter could do to stop it, short of freeing Neal from the stress that he was currently put under by the new arrangement. Unfortunately, a removal of the device was the only option that was truly out of the question.

But in the end, Peter couldn't help himself; he had to keep trying to break Neal out of the solitary shell he had built around himself. Pushing away from his desk after a great deal of pondering and not too much work, Peter did his usual light jog down the main stairwell, making his way to Neal's desk.

Normally, the CI would have perked his head up, like a dog looking for a bone, ready to beg for some sort of reward for his playfully innocent behavior. Instead, those blue eyes were still working over the computer screen, dull and unfocused up until the second that Peter slammed his hand down on the corner of the desk, calling out to the younger man as the computer rattled from the shock.

"Neal!" Peter called, regulating his voice so that the yell did not appear anything more than slightly temperate. At this, Neal looked up, a false smile pinching his face, showing his impeccably white teeth.

"Good morning, Peter" he quipped tonelessly, as though he had read the phrase from an old book, no indication of emotion in the words. Brushing it aside brusquely, Peter ignored the flavorlessness that had now become commonplace, choosing to rather look over the two open case files that stared up from the desk.

"You have any new ideas on these?" He questioned, tapping his fingers idly on the papers that made up the assignment. Neal blinked once, and then twice, before nodding slowly, the smile still on his face.

"The counterfeits will be easy to track now that I figured out where the ink came from. It's not the proper US ink like we thought it was. When we ran some tests, it turned out way too light. It did come from national currency though; it's the exact mixture for Canadian ink base, just with a different ratio of green dye. We have to look at this internationally if we're going to catch these guys. That's all I have for you as of now." Nodding at the promising progress, Peter tapped the other case file, to which Neal's smile faltered slightly, and his voice dropped.

"Nothing on this one yet, Peter. I honestly don't know how he did it. But I'll- I'll keep working on it. I promise" Neal guaranteed hurriedly. Peter would normally made some caustic comment about the nature of art thievery, but over the past weeks that friendly banter had all but disappeared. Looking at Neal's crestfallen face was just barely less than heartbreaking, and Peter couldn't bring himself to say more than a few words of confirmation.

"Alright, well, you keep working on that one. We'll meet later today to work on that money laundering case. If we pin this on someone, would you want to go undercover?" This was a pitiful attempt to ease Neal out of the slump he was in, perhaps make him perk up ever so slightly in an enthusiastic response. Unfortunately, the fractured smile did not shift, even as Peter gave a small grin. Neal did reply, however, and bitterly.

"Not like I could go off anklet on this one, right? I'll pass." Although Peter was uncomfortable at a reminder of the drastic change, a verbal confirmation of Neal's scars, he kept a straight face. Had they been elsewhere, Peter might have folded, offered a token of comfort, but within the open floor of the FBI office, Peter knew that he could not give in to any of the CI's desires. In open view of his colleagues, he was forced to remain stoic.

"Neal, this is your job. No one here knows that stuff like you do, no one else is as good undercover. This is our case. _I_ am leading this case, and you work for me. This will be discussed later during the briefing, which we are having. Don't think of defying me either."

"And why would I?" Neal shot back, his glassy eyes suddenly ablaze. "Because all I am is a con? Because if I can recall, the last time I dared to defy you, I went under the knife. So no, Peter, I won't speak out against you. I'm done, alright? I'm done speaking out, I'm done acting out, I'm done defying you and anyone else. I've already gotten the worst punishment you could offer. So I'm done, Peter. I'm done." After saying this, Neal chuckled, and moved his hands together so they could scratch at one another, seemingly sobered from his outburst. "I'll go undercover. I'll go to your meeting. I will. Just please, don't take anything else away from me."

This brokenness came out as a shadow of a whisper, which was just shielded enough to fall short of other ears nearby. Peter could feel his lips twitching downwards, trying to work his visage into an expression of genuine pain. His heart pined for some sort of way to resolve the pain, resolve how Neal's life had been torn apart. But instead, he looked deep into Neal's watering eyes, summoning a deep breath.

"Just…" Peter started, knowing the inadequacy of his words before he even spoke them. "Be prepared to help give the briefing later. Familiarize yourself with the case completely. Be on time." While the words were icy for the impression of the ones at nearby desks, Neal winced back as though he were in physical pain. Peter could only hope that his nonverbal cries were reaching out as loud and clear as any words.

All that Peter could hope was that Neal saw the apologies that he was screaming with his eyes before he walked away, back to the office, back to a mountain of paperwork that would solve none of the problems close to his heart.

 **-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Just a few hours later, Peter was sitting at the head of the usual table, staring expectantly at Neal, who was shifting his weight uncomfortably where he stood. For the moment, his hands were jammed in his pockets, and the CI shot Peter a desperate look, as though he was uncomfortable by all of the eyes upon him. Yet Peter knew that he couldn't offer up a word, only a prompting glance.

It wasn't as though the change in behavior hadn't been noticed by the rest of the team. Diana and Jones had been watching carefully, but the real scrutiny had come from those that hadn't always been so close to Neal. Someone had leaked the details of his operation, and it had become the office gossip, hushed whispers and sideward glances directed towards him. So now, standing before many members of the more distant team, Neal was the subject of many wandering eyes.

Stuttering to begin, Neal took one hand from the pocket of his jacket, and fiddled with the papers of the case file in front of him. After turning to a page in the middle, he coughed, and shook his head slightly, as though he were trying to wake himself up from some sort of weariness.

"We need to focus our efforts into how this dye is getting across the border. Just like in the US, Canadians keep a tight hold on their currency, and all associated parts. The plate and paper used to make these bills are good, but not perfect. It's the ink that's the least flawed, except for the fact it isn't even American. The Canadian ink is the real key. Once we find out who leaked the secrets, we can find our criminals" he managed to spit out, tripping over the occasional word. After he completed the small spiel, he sat back down in his respective chair, as though he were a schoolboy who had just been scolded.

Still, Peter was able to watch the curious eyes of the white collar division work their way over the CI, as though they were hungry creatures waiting to strike. The way that Neal was being sized up was largely uncomfortable, but Peter was able to divert their attention by clearing his throat and pointing to the file.

"Let's get this right now, before the trail goes cold. Half of the money is still out their; CSI said that there was obviously other money at the location, and that they took off with it before we got there. Jones, you work with Canadian authorities, Diana, you see where that cash could have gone. We're on the lookout for serial numbers that correspond with the ones that we already recovered, and everyone else, work on constructing a go plan for this operation. Neal, once we find them, what's our way in?" Peter prompted this gently, trying to get Neal to be more active, when he would have normally cut in multiple times with smart remarks and clarifications. Instead, it was as difficult as pulling teeth. After a pause of silence, Neal nodded his head, eyes staring down at the wood of the desk when he spoke.

"Ideally, you want to figure out what they want. They'll want to buy someone out, like a drug lord, or some sort of mob behavior could have inspired their actions. Whatever the case, it's going to be someone else on the same level as them. That's going to be my job; helping Diana figure out just who they could have gotten to so quickly" Neal trailed off, staring even more intently down at the papers, as though he were reading, though his eyes were dull.

"He'll be our inside man, just like usual" Peter interrupted, trying to ease the awkwardness that had settled upon the room. "Once you guys get this information to us, we'll plan our strike, and go in hot. This case will be wrapped up before the end of the week if we play this right" he assured, flipping his own case file shut, pushing himself away from the table. This was an adequate signal that the brief meeting had been drawn to a close, and others followed suit, except for Neal. He remained in the chair for a brief moment before reacting, eyes going up to Peter's, and then swinging back down. Only then did he get up, grabbing his case file and retreating.

Words were itching at the end of Peter's tongue, but he couldn't find the right time to say them. Other agents were still in the room, and he had to refrain himself from yelling whatever he pleased, no matter how much he cared. He swore that he would take the time to talk to Neal later, and that they could work things out for good then.

Suddenly, Diana poked her head back in the room, walking in and waiting patiently until all others had cleared out. Peter knew what was coming; of everyone in the office, no matter how tough she pretended to be, she cared for Neal as well, and had held much concern for him over the past few days. And when she opened her mouth, speaking softly, what she said was just as predictable.

"Peter, are you sure that Neal is ready to go undercover? I mean, with everything that has happened lately, I'm not sure that he's our best option. Everyone here is trained and qualified…" She trailed off there, obviously uncertain of what to say next. Sighing, Peter bit on his tongue to refrain from confirming his worries. Even the seasoned agent had his own doubts, but he knew he had to wholeheartedly believe in his own judgement.

"This is what he needs. He wouldn't risk a case, I know that he wouldn't. He hasn't lost his touch; he just needs to get back out in the field. Just like any other kind of tool, he'll get dull if we don't use him. Getting back out there is just what he needs to recover" Peter assured, giving Diana the best smile he could muster. But by the harsh look her dark eyes were giving him, Peter knew that she hadn't been fooled.

"I think that you don't exactly believe it. But you're the lead agent, and it's not my job to question you. I hope you know what you're doing, Peter. Not just for our sake, but for Neal's."

Before Peter had to chance to reply, she turned and walked out, disappearing from sight. Now sighing freely, Peter rubbed his eyes, knowing that she was right. He only hoped that his own judgement was not fractured by personal interest, and that his desire to fix a broken man wouldn't risk his career.

 **-0-0-0-0-0-**

The entire drive home had left Peter to stew in a mess of emotions and questions that he couldn't find the answers to. The streetlights that flashed above him were alike to lightning bugs, flitting away on a warm summer's night, dodging the presence of a moving shadow. These false beacons of hope provided the agent with no comfort in his personal storm that raged within the walls of his body for the duration of the evening.

There was no greater relief than the feeling as he pulled up in front of his own home, knowing that Elizabeth was waiting beyond those walls, most likely something warm and delicious waiting for him at the kitchen table. Perhaps most eagerly of all, Peter hungered for the kiss that he knew would come when he stepped through the door, the warm embrace of the woman he loved so much stripping away the darkness of his anger-fraught world.

The itching to get inside only intensified as he stepped out of the car, making his way towards the door, grabbing the newspaper as he went. Then as his eyes neared the door, he saw the short silhouette that cast its shadow on the front door. Habitually, Peter dropped the paper and went for his gun, levelling it at the head of the man that stood cloaked in shadows.

"Who are you?" Peter demanded, the gravel in his voice grating through the night with terrifying sincerity. The figure took a small step forward, Peter tightening his finger against the trigger in the instance that he needed to defend himself. In that next moment the light illuminated a head that was free from hair, and the reflection off of glasses that he had seen many times in the past.

"No need to get trigger happy, Suit" Mozzie muttered beneath his breath, walking closer to Peter with his shoulders hunched forward, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. With a sigh of both relief and frustration, Peter lowered his gun, letting it come and rest by his side while he shook his head.

"Mozzie, what're you doing here? It's practically the middle of the night! I figured you'd be working, or… whatever you do" Peter murmured, trying to keep his voice low, minimizing the risk of disturbing any neighbors. Mozzie finished closing the gap between them until they stood a friendly distance apart, the dim light of midnight drawing lines across the small man's face. Sniffing before he spoke, Mozzie shook his head, voice matching Peter's hushed tone.

"You're right about my work, but sometimes, as you fail to realize, there are things more important than work. I'm here to talk about Neal."

"Neal?" Peter hissed, feeling the heartbeat in his chest pick up rapidly. It seemed that the CI was all that anyone could bear to talk about as of late, as though he had suddenly become the pivot on which their lives hinged. But Peter was scared now, for Mozzie was arguably the soul closest to the dark-haired con artist, the one partner that Neal had never ceased to part from. If anyone were to hold answers, it would be this man.

"Yes, Neal" Mozzie continued, pushing a finger against the bridge of his nose in an attempt to shift his glasses, almost as though he were nervous to speak. "And I'm going to be blunt. There are few things that I take as seriously as evidence that the moon landing was faked, or as the aliens that-"

"Mozzie" Peter cut in, knowing that he had to stop the man before he got too far off track. With a small, embarrassed cough, Mozzie nodded and then continued.

"What I'm trying to say is that I think Neal has been hurting himself."

 **Thank you all so much for you support! The feedback I have been receiving on this story has been overwhelming. I sincerely appreciate every single review, favorite, and follow that I receive on this. I'm always open for comments and critique; feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM. I really hope that you enjoyed this chapter, thanks again!**


	4. Chapter 4

"He's been- he's been what?" Peter stuttered, his grip on the gun going nearly completely slack when the short phrase hit his ears. His head spun at the words and their sudden gravity, and he was forced to shake it to clear his mind. With a short mental note that he was talking to Mozzie ,of all people that could deliver the news, he regained his wits quickly. Rather than tormenting himself with possibilities, he paused and listened to the explanation that was slipping from Mozzie's still-parted lips.

"You heard me. Hurting himself. Like, using a knife and-"

"I know" Peter cut him off curtly, not wishing to have his stomach churn at the gruesome details of this latest speculation. The thought of someone dragging a blade through their own skin was heinous even to the seasoned agent, a feeling that only magnified when it came to Neal. These feelings were showing themselves more and more frequently over the past week; what had once been a burning desire to destroy the con had transformed into a weakness. A burning desire to catch the man had in turn allowed a soft spot to melt in his heart, to the point that his affection for the informant was uncanny.

Swallowing back the tears that threatened to fall at such a concept, Peter drew in a deep breath and carefully posed his next question, forcing the words out with all of the strength that he could muster in that moment.

"Mozzie, are you sure about that, I mean, how do you know for sure-"

"I wouldn't come to your house if I didn't know for sure. This is Neal. You know that I don't joke about Neal." The firm repetition from the man would have usually been enough, but Peter was far from the point of second-guessing.

"But how do you know for sure" Peter breathed, his chest shaking with the effort of forming the words, reigning in his shattering composure. At this display of emotion, Mozzie inclined his head downwards, dodging the eye contact that Peter was straining to make in his desperation.

"I walked into his room like I usually do, for business that I will not disclose, and he was off by his bed, it looked like he was getting dressed. He saw me walk in and pulled a shirt on so that I couldn't see. At least, that's what he thought. I saw before he could cover all the way. His arms and torso were covered in new cuts, and he's sleeping with a knife next to his bed, which he tried to hide with a blanket a few seconds later" Mozzie trailed off with a sullen tone. Peter groaned inwardly, more so in denial than in agony of the gruesome scene that Mozzie had painted. For a moment, he cursed his own insolence and ignorance, his inability to detect a problem that should have been so obvious.

Then he bit down on his lower lip, remembering his small vantage point into Neal's secrets, the limited window of opportunity to look into the life of his partner. The long sleeved shirts could only mask so much, and Peter couldn't help but feel as though he had displayed a painfully willful ignorance to a glaring problem. With a grimace on his face, Peter recalled the raw patches that Neal had worked into the backs of his hands with the incessant, nervous scratching. It should have been blindingly obvious, but what could have been done? Peter had been hoping that Neal would somehow recover, somehow bounce back on his own, as only ignorance could ever allow. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Peter addressed Mozzie softly.

"So what are we going to do now? How can we help him?" Mozzie shot him a hard glare at those words, one that was uncharacteristic of the generally peaceful man. When he spoke, his voice may have been hushed by the threat of shadows in the night, but it was dripping with a molten bitterness.

"How would I know that, Suit? You're the one that did this to him." Without so much as another word, Mozzie turned his back and moved silently towards the street, melting into the darkness as though he were a part of it. The small frame was easily obscured by the opaque atmosphere of twilight, his silhouette instantly growing unrecognizable with just one step.

"Wait!" Peter cried out, taking a hesitant step towards the man. But it was too late; Mozzie was already gone, just seconds later. Unable to suppress a groan, Peter pushed his face into the palms of his hands, feeling the lines of stress which had etched themselves there over the years.

Once he was certain that Mozzie was lost to the night, Peter turned himself back towards his car, pulling his cell phone from his pocket with deft motions. El's number was already blinking on the screen by the time that Peter had started the car again. The time that had passed was so brief that the interior was still warm from his travels home from the office. Looking back at his house, Peter felt his eyes burning with emotion as El's voice met his ears over the phone.

"Let me guess; you won't be home for dinner" she stated simply. Peter winced at the honey-sweet sound of his wife's voice, uncertain of how to explain himself, and his absence, yet again.

"Hon, I'm sorry" he strained, giving a last look at the golden glow of the windows as he pulled away. The absence of his night at home was already aching deep inside his chest.

"It's Neal, isn't it?" She inquired gently, which startled Peter ever so slightly.

"How'd you know that?" He asked, trying to keep his eyes focused on the road, and not allow himself to be drawn into her lulling voice. Her small sigh, and subsequent chuckle, tugged the corners of his lips ever so slightly upwards as he awaited her response.

"That's all you've been talking about lately. I know that you're worried about him, and I am too. Do what you have to do. I'll put your dinner in the fridge for now. It'll be there when you get home, and I'll be in bed." Despite the fact that she must have felt severe disappointment, Peter was forever grateful for her sweet voice and unending love. Biting back another sigh, Peter responded as softly as he could, trying to express his genuine thanks.

"Hon, you're the greatest. I'll see you-"

"Peter" she cut in suddenly, her voice at a high pitch. "Take care of our boy, okay? Make sure he's okay."

The sudden and unexpected expression of endearment took Peter off guard, and he felt his hands grip the wheel a little tighter. He knew how protective Elizabeth was over Neal, but to hear those words made his heart speed up at an incredible rate.

 _Our boy?_

There were a million thoughts racing through his head, memories and sceneries that had become commonplace. All of the mornings that Neal had spent at _their_ breakfast table, eating _their_ cereal, drinking the coffee from _their_ mug, all while laughing and smiling as though he was home. And Peter knew the smile when it came across Neal's face, and however close it was to his 'con-smile,' this one was different. The smile that Peter saw at his breakfast table included crow's feet at the corners of Neal's eyes, with shoulders relaxed back against the chair so that he was nearly reclined in comfort. And this Neal, the one sitting at Peter's table on a lazy Saturday morning, laughed with a shaking chest and glittering eyes.

The sad times, they were just as real and as genuine as those filled with joy. Neal on the couch, eyes studying the carpet closely, Peter scolding him harshly over one fault or another, that was real. Reality came when Mozzie knocked at their door, begging someone to check on Neal, saying that he was sick and too afraid to go to the hospital. That whole night Peter had spent nursing the feverish informant, trying to coax him to a doctor, then folding and mothering into the early hours of the morning. Those times, those were real, and that was what Neal had come to be. He was so much more than just a con, or just a name attached to the title of 'consultant.' Of all the things Neal was, he was part of Peter's life, an immovable testament to faith and close bonds between men.

These thoughts flashed through him in just an instant, like a lightning bolt of hot, white emotion, and he realized that he still had to reply. Swallowing back this unexpected wave of feeling, he licked his lips and whispered back his response, feigning his composure.

"Yes, El, of course. I'll see you later tonight." The line went dead as El hung up, and Peter's hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white in a silent response to his sudden solitude. The car was urged forward more quickly that Peter usually dared, scenery flashing by in the dark outside the windows in nothing more than a twilight-saturated blur. Peter could feel his blood thundering until his feet threatened to go numb, each crash of a heartbeat echoing like gunshots in his ears.

He was on his way to check on Neal. He was on the way to check on his CI. He was on the way to check on a bureau asset. He was on the way to check on a man that was still a boy.

 _His_ boy.

 **Oh. My. Gosh. Thank you all so much for your incredible support on this story! I appreciate each and every follow, favorite, and review with all of my heart. I am so eternally grateful to your support. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or critique, feel free to shoot me a PM or drop a review. I understand how busy everyone must be; the fact that people take the time out of their busy days to give me feedback, and to even just read this, is so incredible and breathtaking to me. Thank you all so much; please have a wonderful rest of your day!**


	5. Chapter 5

Once he was outside of the familiar, towering home, Peter was practically running with all the strength he held in his body. Every breath it took to get to Neal's door was another breath that Peter was left to worry, his body shaking in nearly unbearable anxiety. It felt like each minute prior to this had been a waste, as if each second of complacency was an agonizing opportunity for Neal to get pushed over the brink, beyond the point of no return. There was no telling if Neal was already too far gone, if Peter was already too late.

It was that frenzied line of thinking that led Peter to forgo knocking on Neal's door, and instead throw it wide open, striding in with his emotions threatening to boil over. He was met with a sight that stopped him cold, the door still wide open, his body positioned in mid-stride.

When he had been driving himself there, he didn't know exactly what to expect. Perhaps Neal would be sitting on the balcony, drinking coffee and reading a book, exhausted and worn from his new burden. Perhaps he would already be asleep after a trying day at the office, tucked beneath the warmth of his blankets. Maybe Peter expected for Neal to be sitting at the table, waiting expectantly, having been set up by Mozzie for some sort of lecture or crazy scheme.

But instead, Peter was nearly blinded by the bright lights that lit up the inside of the penthouse, a glaring white hitting him from what felt like every angle. Once he blinked that sudden shock aside, he was able to stare at the dinner table in the middle of the room, which had been cleared and draped with a white cloth. On that cloth there laid a body, nothing but a thin blue blanket gently covering the lower half. Stomach churning, Peter realized that the white was dotted with speckles of rich red blood, as was the torso of the body. Peter was only snapped from his shock when the body spoke, seemingly indignant at the intrusion.

"Now's not really the best time, Peter" Neal's voice came weakly, his head raising from where he lay, the dark hair slicked back from his pale face. Peter stared with even more intensity, unbelieving of the sight that he beheld. From the angle he was at, all he could see was a glimpse of the consultant's face, a sickly pallor with parted lips, forehead pinched in an expression of pain.

Although it took a moment to fully comprehend, Peter was now able to observe the scene in all brutal honesty. Neal was laid out on the table, his left hand hovering beneath his ribcage, two of his fingers inserted into his abdomen up to the second knuckle. The other hand was carefully dabbing gauze at the entrance to the bleeding wound in a pitiful attempt to sop up the spilling crimson. Beside Neal, on a small metal tray, lay an array of sharp instruments glinting under the artificial lights. The scalpels and sutures were enough to draw Peter back to the chilling reality he had walked in on, and sent him running over to Neal's side. The sight was so startling, he was unable to do anything but stare in shock at the rivers of crimson that ran down Neal's sides with every wheezing breath he took.

"Oh my god, Neal, what are you doing?" He exclaimed, unable to help as the cry tore itself from his lips, a guttural display of concern. The CI only let his head fall back on the small towel that had been propped beneath his neck, and shifted the two fingers that were inside his torso ever so slightly, grunting and grabbing another pad of gauze where it lay beside him. It obviously labored the man to speak, but still Neal replied, however shakily.

"Please, Peter, don't distract me right now. If you really want to help, tell me the number left on the timer next to me" he grunted out beneath his breath, reaching for yet another pad of gauze. Instinctually, Peter complied, spitting out the time as quickly as he could in his desperation.

"Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds" Peter replied, then he ran his hands through his hair, contemplating the gravity of the situation. "Oh my god, Neal, I have to call the hospital. What are you doing?"

"No hospital, Peter" Neal whined, unsettlingly peaceful, forgive the tremors that wracking his thin frame. Now that the wound seemed to be adequately padded to Neal's standards, he took his free hand and reached for what appeared to be a needle and thread. "I'm right on time, there's no need to worry. I'm fine. I'll be conscious for another three minutes at this rate, and that's just enough time to stitch the incision and dress it. I have the situation under control. I'll only be in danger if you don't shut up. I know what I'm doing" the ex-con hissed, the two fingers sliding out from beneath his skin, soaked in blood.

This action caused the deep red flow to renew, and Peter felt his breath starting to escape him as a deluge of anxiety overwhelmed him. Although he had basic first aid training from the FBI, he had no idea what to do facing this particular situation, on that seemed on the verge of spiraling out of control. Yet Neal was already pinching the skin with his bloodied fingers, yanking the needle through quickly and expertly, sealing the wound with messy crosses.

The timer beside them read one minute and thirty seconds when Neal let the needle fall from his hand, and Peter still stood with a frozen reverence, staring with wide eyes. There was blood everywhere, soaking through the cloth across the table, through the mountain of gauze, so much that a few drops escaped onto the floor with small splashes of color. Neal didn't seem to be done quite yet, paying no attention to his apparent losses. He yanked off the latex gloves he had been wearing, still not lifting his head to examine his handiwork, and grabbed a few bandages from beside the scalpels. As though he had done it many times before, he took them and pulled them firmly across the large gash he had just stitched up. Using his elbows as leverage, he then sat up slightly to bind them properly. Only when he was done with this did Peter let the breath he had been holding go, and only then did Neal look him in the eyes.

"Peter, I'm sorry" were the first words that he rasped before collapsing heavily back onto the table, his chest heaving for breath, sweat rolling down his temples as he squeezed his eyes shut. The words were enough to pull the agent out of his shock, realizing that it was finally time to address the situation, which had yet to completely diffuse.

"Neal, tell me what the hell is happening. If you don't, I'm calling for help. What have you done to yourself?" Though his voice was threatening to slip out of control, and Peter was fighting back nausea at the sight of the excessive loss of blood, he controlled his tone just enough to display an ounce of superiority. Still breathing heavily, Neal swallowed, shaking his head as his first response.

"I'm sorry Peter, I really am. I had to do this. I'm about to pass out, but don't worry, the bleeding is going to stop within a few minutes. Don't call the hospital, really, I'm fine. I know you're going to stick around, so I'll have an explanation for you later. When I wake up, I'd- I'd really love some water" he rasped, eyes still closed, liquid leaking from the corners of them. For the first time since he entered the room, Peter dared to touch Neal's body, placing a firm grip on the still man's arm.

"Neal, Neal talk to me. I'm not going to take you to the hospital, alright? I won't, but you need to tell me what's going on. Oh god, Neal, what've you done? Come on, stay awake" he prompted, shaking Neal's arm ever so slightly. The jolting motion led Neal to gasp, and his eyelids fluttered, blinking up into the bright light.

"Fine, fine, I'm up" he groaned, obviously fighting to open his eyes. Between groans, Peter studied the parts of Neal's torso which weren't bloody, and found himself feeling sick once more. The skin was covered in a patchwork of thick cuts that had yet to heal completely, deep canyons carved into flesh by the sharp side of a blade. The only wound that seemed to be closed over enough to scar was the one that had been made by a surgeon just weeks prior, the small ridge of flesh a startling pink in comparison to the deep red gashes that occupied the rest of the space.

"Please, explain yourself" Peter prompted, studying the terrain that had puckered with scar tissue in Neal's toned torso, then back to the bloody mess that the CI had created within his home just minutes prior. Still completely prone, Neal blinked away a few more silver tears, his body unmoving as he spoke between gasps.

"Had to test… my pain tolerance. Test how much blood I could lose before I passed out, how quickly I was clotting. That's what all of… this is" he finished, giving a halfhearted glance down at his chest. The floor swayed beneath Peter's feet, and he yanked a chair from across the room next to the table where Neal lay, just for the sake of being able to sit down and process the situation. Instinctually, he reached up and held Neal's hand, ignoring the droplets of blood on his wrist and how warm the fingers still were.

"You're going to remove the tracking device yourself" Peter confirmed, trying to push any awe out of his voice so that Neal had no chance to feel proud of himself. The truth was, Peter was stunned by the incredible resolve that Neal had shown, but at the same time he was sickened that it had reached such a point that the only escape Neal had was cutting open his flesh in an attempt to remove it. The real confirmation came in Neal's subtle nod, barely noticeable.

"Peter, I'm sorry…" he repeated for the third time, eyes slipping totally shut as he gave up, the scar-covered chest rising and falling just as rapidly as before. "I don't have any choice" he rasped weakly, not making any sort of additional contact with the agent, even gently pulling his hand away, though Peter still grasped it. "I need to get rid of it. It's destroying me."

"I know" Peter comforted, as he would a child. His mind felt as though it were on the verge of overheating, unable to completely handle what he was facing. It was unfathomable what Neal had gone through, and after all the nights of thinking on it himself, Peter knew in that instant that he could not blame the CI for these drastic actions. What he had to work on now was healing. He remembered his promise to Elizabeth, and he planned to complete them. He was here, holding Neal's hand, ready to do anything, because he had promised to take care of Neal. He had promised to Elizabeth that he was going to take care of their boy.

"How about I get you some water, how about that? Then we can get you cleaned up" Peter offered, giving Neal's clammy hand a small squeeze. But Neal failed to respond with more than a gentle, shallow answer, breathing suddenly growing more labored.

"I'm going to pass out, Peter. I can't- can't fight it off much longer. Little bit too much blood this time, I'll have to be quicker next…" that was where he trailed off, eyes settling shut, and the tension in his chest relaxing ever so slightly. Although he knew full well what had happened, Peter couldn't help but instinctually react.

"Neal, can you hear me? Neal?" Coupling with the words was a gentle squeeze of Neal's hand, to which there was no response. Even a few minutes later, Neal hadn't stirred, and Peter was left standing completely alone in the bright lights, Neal's unconscious body lying before him. The moment was frozen in time, artificial lights making the blood shimmer in all of its sickly hues, and the sweat glistened like dew. Slight respite was offered, as serenity settled with Neal's breathing slowing, the chest rising and falling reliably within the minute.

Only then did Peter let Neal's hand go, wiping the sweat off on the leg of his pants before letting his head hang low. The floor was still marbled by drops of blood, fractured where Peter had stepped in them. The darkness outside of the windows seemed to suddenly be infiltrating the penthouse, the tendrils of shadow wrapping around Peter's heart cruelly. The sight before him was still nearly unbearable, but there was nothing he could do now. Neal's body was still except for his gentle breaths, but Peter's own shoulders were shaking.

In that moment, he was able to survey the physical damages that the bureaucracy had done. For all of the nights that Peter had ignored Mozzie's muttering on the harm of the establishment, now he was witnessing it firsthand. Swallowing back his fear, Peter contemplated what he could do. He realized that there was only one option; help the man that he had broken.

The first step he took was clutching the box of latex gloves that sat on a distant counter, pulling them onto his hands with a snap. Carefully monitoring Neal's breathing as he went, Peter picked up the bloodied supplies strewn across the table, tossing wads of bloodied bandaging into a black trash bag, along with red-stained towels. As for the sinister silver tools that lay beside Neal's body, Peter left those alone, nearly fearful to touch them and their menacing blades.

The next step he took tenderly, carefully surveying the area that Neal had patched up himself. Using a damp cloth that had seemed untouched by blood, Peter wiped away the crimson stains that had fallen across Neal's stomach and side, only uncovering additional scarring as he went. By now, Peter's gut had been steeled to the reality, and he went on, wiping until the blood was cleansed from Neal's unconscious form, still carefully avoiding the area that had been freshly bandaged.

At first, he debated the next notion, unsure of what, if anything, would lay beneath the blanket covering Neal's lower half. Then reality settled over him once again, just as real as the shivers that had been filling Neal's unconscious form. Throwing his usual caution to the wind, Peter took a deep breath and removed the thin blanket. Instantly thankful that Neal had covered himself with even just a pair of thin boxers, Peter went over to Neal's bed and grabbed one of the thicker blankets, taking it over to the table in a bundled heap.

While he wished to transport Neal over to the bed, where it would be more comfortable when the man woke, Peter wasn't going to fool himself on his interpretation of strength. He may have been strong, but he was in no condition to carry Neal's limp body across the room. While he could have reasonably done it with the proper leverage, although it would have been difficult, the real factor that caused him hesitance was the potential for damage. Being far from a doctor, he was uncertain of how the movement would affect whatever Neal had done to himself, potentially causing more damage in the process. So instead, he covered Neal's body with the thick quilt, doing his best to be gentle and tender in providing the small comfort.

Nurturing was still something that Peter was mostly removed from, as he had always played the hard hand when it came to managing tender situations. While he wished that Elizabeth was there, he knew that the very last thing he could bear to do to his lovely wife was drag her into this. He could already imagine her gentle hand guiding its way across Neal's forehead, gauging if he was running a fever, preparing him a cool glass of water and a small meal for when he woke. He could imagine the taut lines her lips would become as she glanced down at the battered body, replacing the dressing on the wound with soft words and forced smiles of comfort.

Yet the last thing that she deserved was the stress of seeing the boy she cared for so greatly in a state like this, and the last thing that Neal deserved was the lack of dignity that would come from being treated like a boy. The weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders, and he had been handling it like a man, albeit a man that was in a great deal of pain. He may seek comfort, but in the biggest challenge of his life, he had laid on his dining table and cut open his own skin. Neal hadn't run to Peter, to Mozzie, or to any other soul in the world. He had taken the burden, and he had borne it honorably, in solitude.

Peter knew that he could not commend such actions, nor could he breach the promise that he had told Neal. There would be no hospital visit tonight, just silence and whatever silent comfort that the agent could provide once Neal woke from the trauma-induced slumber.

To busy himself in the meantime, Peter wet another cloth, scrubbing at the blood that had fallen on the floor, taking breaks to check that Neal was still breathing.

 **-0-0-0-0-0-**

It was nearly two hours later that Peter was distracted from his peace by Neal gasping awake. Fortunately, before Neal had come completely into awareness, he had been groaning and shifting his body. Peter had taken the opportunity to grab a glass of water, and return to his spot by Neal's side, waiting diligently. In the time that Neal had been unconscious, Peter had turned off many of the artificial lights that Neal had brought in, cleaned up all of the blood, and provided a better pillow to support Neal's head.

As Neal blinked into the golden light of just a few lamps, Peter smiled widely, glad above all else to see that the CI was awake and somewhat alert after such a night. Groaning groggily, Neal looked at the glass that Peter had extended to him warily.

"You're… you're still here" Neal managed to rasp, looking first at Peter, and then at the quilt that covered him, wincing as he did. Seemingly still confused, he continued, rambling ever so slightly in his relatively sedated state, voice sounding like gravel as he did.

"What- what's this? I don't remember using this. Peter, you didn't leave, why didn't you-"

"Neal, you need a drink. Just a little now. Then lay back down, and we'll talk. Try that" Peter offered, extending the glass a little further. Brows wrinkled in confusion, Neal reached for it, taking it in a shaking hand. Careful to guide the water with his hand, Peter ensured that Neal took a few gentle sips before handing it back. Then, and only then, did Neal relax back onto the table, head sinking into the pillow that Peter had placed there. Closing his eyes, Neal sighed, as though he were trying to distract Peter from the wince working its way across his face. But Peter was not so easily fooled.

"Neal, I know you're in pain. It's not going to go away, not for a while. I'll try to get you some pain meds, but those will only do so much. Do you want to try and get into bed?" He questioned this gently, hoping that Neal would take up the offer, and maybe work his way weakly over to the more comfortable option that lay just a few seconds of walking away. To this, Neal nodded slightly, grimacing as he did so.

"Bed. Sounds great right about now." The request may have been short, but Peter wasn't prepared to comply just yet. In the hours of silence that Neal's unconsciousness had gifted him, he had come up with a few questions to supplement the atmosphere for the time being.

"Before I move you, I have to know what you did to yourself" Peter demanded firmly, giving Neal the most stern glance he could manage without feeling guilt. "I'm not going to move you until I know just what your injuries are, and how this move might hurt you further. I'm more careful than that" Peter cautioned, knowing that his affection had seeped into his words. In the moment, however, it seemed that Neal couldn't care less. The wounded man just closed his eyes again, sighing as though such an action would alleviate pain.

"I didn't do anything. Like I said, this was a test. I've been cutting to see how much blood I could lose without going unconscious, and then how long it took for me to clot completely. Once I figured it out, I brushed up on the medical training I had, and got some of my old tools out. I wanted to see if my pain threshold would let me perform some minor surgery on myself, and if I would be able to stitch myself back up again. And I was, on time and everything. So other than poking around my insides, and letting myself bleed a little, nothing happened. I just have to be careful not to tear these stitches" Neal reminded with a wince as he shifted his weight.

At this point, Peter couldn't help but sigh. While it was a relief to hear that no massive damage had been done outside of the incision, it was unbearable to think that Neal had done all of that just to test his tolerance to self-inflicted pain. The lengths that he had gone through to get this far were unbelievable. Content for the time being that movement would not disrupt all of Neal's chances for recovery, Peter set the glass of water down and stood, pulling the quilt off of Neal's body quickly. The CI groaned in protest as the cool air hit his body, but Peter gave him no time to complain.

"Come on, I gotcha. Let's go" Peter prompted, pulling Neal up into a sitting position, despite the groans of protest. Draping Neal's arm over his shoulders, Peter was able to help Neal slide his legs off the table, until they were both touching the floor. While it was largely uncomfortable to have Neal's nearly naked body leaning up against him, Peter was comforted in the fact that it was of a relatively normal temperature, indicating that he was a victim of neither fever nor shock.

The steps it took to reach the bed were agonizing, not just for all of the weight that Peter was forced to bear, but the slow progress it was. Each step made Neal groan, and Peter wished that he could block it all out. The sounds of pain were not welcome to his admittedly tender ears. Still, he was able to brace himself and make it across the room, allowing Neal to collapse into the bed.

As gently as he could, Peter pulled the blankets up around Neal's body, ensuring that he was covered and warm before stepping away. Neal's eyes were still open, though sliding shut now that he was settled, and they looked at Peter for a few moments before Neal spoke, audibly weakened.

"Peter… Why? Why did you do all of this for me?" He rasped out, head sinking back into the pillows, exhaustion and blood loss obviously doing their part to win out over the pain. Giving a small smile, Peter told at least half of the truth in a voice that was just as quiet, hoping that Neal had slipped into the realm of dreams before the statement made its way into the air.

"Because you matter, Neal. I care about you. And I'm going to help you get out of this."

 **A serious thank you to everyone who has continued to support me on this story! I sincerely appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review on this story. Some of you are just way too generous with your kind words and constant encouragement. I can only hope that you enjoy this chapter, and have a fantastic rest of your day!**


	6. Chapter 6

Although he would have liked to sleep the instant he saw Neal's eyes close, Peter knew that he had to busy himself until Neal woke for the day. Only then, in full consciousness, could there be a proper assessment of the injuries that had been inflicted. Until then, Peter had to be content with more menial tasks, such as cleaning up the blood-soaked sheets that Neal had laid upon, and removing the surgical tools, sanitizing them with the alcohol wipes that Neal had conveniently placed on the countertop.

The amount of blood was sickening, and it was difficult to work against his own exhaustion, but Peter knew that he had to do it. Not for himself, but for Neal's sake. If in this time of need he proved unworthy of even the most basic trust, there was no way that Neal would ever allow him to help him in the future. The trust that they had with one another, however shaky it was, would serve as the foundation on the road to recovery. To properly create this basis would take more time than they had, and Peter recognized that, but he also recognized urgency when it stared at him so blatantly.

Right now, he couldn't help but look over Neal's motionless body, ignoring the dawn that pushed through the closed blinds with tendrils of rosy light. The informant was still sleeping soundly, not so much as twitching through the many hours that Peter had busied himself with chores. Yet now that the sun was yawning over the horizon, it seemed that Neal instinctually stirred at this natural que, suddenly groaning and stirring where he lay.

Setting the plate in his hand aside, Peter hurried to Neal's bedside, and stood over it like an ever-watchful gargoyle. Motionless he waited, up until those deep blue eyes blinked open, coupled with a low sound of pain from Neal's parted lips. It took Neal a few moments, but he rolled partially to one side, then grunted in what must have been discomfort as he was reminded of his self-inflicted wounds. Only when Neal looked up at him did Peter give a few gentle words.

"Take it easy, Neal. We're both off work today, so don't even think about it. You're going to need some time in bed after your stunt last night" he reminded, motioning to Neal's body using an open palm. With a furrowed brow, Neal lifted the blankets with a wince, and looked at the bandages covering the newest of his injuries. After a moment of contemplation, the CI looked back up at his handler, seemingly agitated.

"Peter, you really don't have to be here, last night I made a mistake and-"

"Stop," Peter cut in. "You didn't make a mistake. The only mistake is that I ever let it get this far. I know that my apologies haven't been enough, and they never will be. I should have helped you with this the moment it began. I shouldn't have even let those papers off my desk" he lamented bitterly, masking his sorrow with a quiet storm anger. Relaxing back on the pillows in that instant, Neal closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I looked at them myself. You were cornered, there really wasn't a way out if you wanted to keep your job. They did a good job on this, they really did. You did what you had to do. And I'm doing what I have to in response. Don't apologize to me" Neal assured, his voice still weak. Reminded of what he had been doing, Peter quickly rushed back to the small kitchen, and grabbed the glass of cool water that was waiting for when Neal woke. Taking it back over to the bed, he offered it to Neal, who took it and sipped slowly as Peter continued to speak.

"I've decided that I'm going to help you. You're right, you can't live with this any longer. I'm not going to let you." Knowing how firm his voice sounded, Peter wasn't surprised when Neal startled, his eyes going wide in what could only be interpreted as fear.

"Peter, you can't do that! You'd be breaking the law if you tried to help me with this. Legally, I have to have this in me. I can't take it out, and neither can you. I'm just seeing if it's physically possible for me to even try. Even attempting to is illegal" Neal protested, nearly spilling the water as he showed his emotions at the prospect of such a gesture. But at this point, Peter was past backing down. He had had the entire night to reflect on his decision, with Neal's drying blood sticking to him as he cleaned, staring down at the sleeping, helpless body, and he had chosen his fate.

"I don't care if I'm breaking the law. The minute that some guy signed the papers to put you in this hell, the rules were off. They still are, as far as I'm concerned. But if we're going to do this, I'll need some help. I don't have the connections that you do" Peter started, enjoying himself ever so slightly as he described the plan. "If you don't have any, I'm certain that Mozzie has a contact or two that we can use. Whatever the case, we're going to take care of this. I promise."

"You can't risk your career for me, Peter" Neal hissed, sitting up a bit further onto his elbows, wincing as the skin across his abdomen pulled. "Not like this. You put your neck out for me too often. One day, you're going to get in serious trouble."

"This is serious trouble" Peter interrupted, heat flaring in his gut. "The fact that I let this happen is serious trouble. It's worse than that. We've been so far past 'serious trouble' for a good while now, and I don't think another infraction is going to make the world collapse in on us." Breathing heavily to regain control, Peter looked to the floor, avoiding eye contact with Neal, who had an expression of both pain and intrigue. Quietly, in a voice that was laced with defiance, Neal continued to try and defend himself.

"There's a reason I'm doing this myself. I make a good point of not knowing any of the 'doctors' in town, or any of their associates. Medicine in the underworld is far from cheap, and I don't have those kind of assets right now, and I couldn't acquire them on short notice. The kind of people that you're thinking about might not take sides, but they usually have ties to the mob. Anyone who can stitch up a gunshot wound is a valuable asset, and they're nearly untouchable. Because of who they associate with, and how valuable they're considered, they're nearly untouchable. They spook easily, and only crawl out of the woodwork for something serious, or at the prospect of a serious payday. There's no chance I would get any sort of attention for what I have right now, especially not with the lack of funds" Neal explained, almost as though he were lamenting the fact that he was no more seriously wounded. Peter shook his head though, unwilling to accept that Neal cutting himself open was the only option. In fact, his reply was so fierce that it startled even himself.

"I don't care if we have to take you to a goddamn veterinarian; we're going to fix this. You've made it this far, Neal. I'm not giving up on you." The words slipped out, and Peter breathed in a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling in an attempt to calm his thundering heart. Still, Neal fought him, more gentle in the face of such open compassion.

"Peter, I'm going to be okay. Please, just let me handle this" he begged, setting the glass of water he had still been clutching aside and trying to sit up all the way. "You've done more than enough."

"Don't lie to me. Neal, last night I walked in here and you had cut your own stomach open, and you acted like it was no big deal. You've been bleeding yourself for the hell of it. If anything, I haven't done enough. You're my partner, for better or for worse. We're in this together" Peter tried to state firmly, to which Neal only smirked weakly.

"Now you're making it sound like we're married. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but you've honestly done enough. I'm not your kid, I'm not your husband, and in the bureaus eyes, we aren't even friends. This is my body, and it's my business" Neal reminded defiantly, the small grin dropping. To hear the icy retort pushed Peter to a subject that he swore he wouldn't cross, not like this. But he couldn't help the words slipping past his lips as desperation filled him.

"It's not just me that feels this way. Mozzie came to me because he was worried, he actually willingly came to my house and told me that he was worried about you. And do you want to hear about Elizabeth? My wife can't go one night without saying your name and asking if you're alright. That poor woman has nearly been worried to tears over you. And when I told her I was coming here last night, she begged me, my own wife begged me to make sure that you were alright. Diana keeps stopping me and asking if you should be at the office while you're in so much pain. This is bigger than you and your inflated ego. This is about the people around you, and what this is doing to not just you, but the people who care about you. I care. Mozzie cares. Elizabeth cares. Everyone that you've surrounded yourself with cares. You might think we still see you as just a criminal, but you're family. To all of us."

Silence filled the air, and Neal took that moment to look down at his feet, as though he were ashamed. He took a hand to idly smooth over the bandages, which had become pink with the remaining blood that was draining. Then he looked up, his eyes filled with dampness, obvious that he was trying to swallow back tears.

"I never imagined this would hurt them too. I know this is my life being changed, but…" he trailed off there, touching the scar now, the one that masked the site of the implant with puckered flesh. Then he hung his head low, letting the hair fall down in a disorderly manner, as though he were a beaten animal, his voice cracking.

"I never thought that my life changing could affect so many people. I used to be alone in this world. And now, when something bad happens, I have all these people. I'm sorry that I just, I really don't know what to do sometimes. For god's sake, you're here in my house, and you've done all of this for me. Even knowing you as I have, for so long, I just… I'm still surprised when you show up and care about one thing or another. Even if sometimes it's nothing more than checking I'm not breaking the law again, it's still someone who cares. And I'm still not sure how to accept that. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry." To this, Peter couldn't formulate a response. It was bone-chilling to think of someone as charismatic as Neal never really settling down with real friends, with the exception of Mozzie, who flitted in and out of the shadows as reliably as a moth. Of course, it came as a part of the job as a con-man, the fluid nature of life that lived on extravagance, and relationships that held no true dedication or longevity.

Imagining Neal all alone in his suffering was cruel. Peter couldn't imagine how overwhelming it was to have his own affection, along with that of his wife, weighing down on the man who had once lived in solitude. Of course, that meant that now, of all times, was the last to push him away. Taking a daring move, Peter sat down gently on the edge of the bed, and rested a hand firmly on Neal's shoulder.

"I know that this is new for you. It's new for me too. I'm here for you, and so is Elizabeth. She really cares about you, like you're family. So do I. That's why I'm going to do whatever I have to, anything that is humanly possible, to get that infernal device out of you, even if I have to go to the ends of the earth and back. You're more than a bureau asset, more than a piece of property for people to push around. You're valuable to me and a lot of people. Not as an object, but as a friend" Peter concluded, giving Neal's shoulder a comforting squeeze. Now when Neal looked up, Peter was sure that the tears were there, more than just a figment of his imagination, glittering in the light.

"Do you really mean that?" Neal whispered, to which Peter nodded, trying to put all of his conviction into his next words.

"I do. We're in this together. We're going to beat this. And we're going to do it together." This was enough to make Neal blink, letting two of the liquid diamonds cascade down his cheeks, coming to meet the corners of lips, which had tugged into a small smile. Sniffing, Neal replied, obviously grateful.

"Thank you, Peter. Thank you."

 **Thank you all so much for taking the time out of your busy days to read this story and give me such incredible feedback! I have been utterly overwhelmed by the response on this story. I sincerely appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review that I have received. If there are any questions, comments, critiques, or concerns, feel free to leave a review or shoot me a PM. Thank you all again, and I hope that you enjoyed!**


	7. Chapter 7

"Absolutely not."

"Mozzie, there has to be _somebody_. I know that you know. You've helped Neal with so much in the past, and it makes no sense to turn him away when he needs you the most. What harm can one more contact do? This is Neal we're talking about" Peter hissed to the smaller man, who was fidgeting nervously under such intense attention. Although Peter wished he could have been yelling to emphasize his point, Neal was asleep just down the hall, already exhausted from the trying morning. Mozzie had merely shown up by force of habit, just to be confronted by Peter before he reached his friend.

"I'm serious" Mozzie insisted, pushing at his glasses, clearly indicating his slight irritancy. "If Neal told you that anyone with ties to the mob is out of the question, then he's out of luck. And you didn't hear that from me, fed" he finished with a snarky grimace. Unable to anything but roll his eyes at the glancing blow, Peter kept pressing.

"There has to be someone. He needs this. We all do. I'm not going to let him cut himself open again. We have to get that thing out of him one way or another. Come on, Mozzie. Do _you_ know how to? You know how to do just about anything else we need you to. Why not minor surgery?" Peter knew that he was grasping at straws, especially considering how unresponsive Mozzie was being. At first there was silence, but then the bald man sniffed, and looked down at his scuffed shoes.

"There's one man I can think of. But he's nothing close to a doctor, and he's very expensive, and hard to get a hold of. It might be some time before I can get him for you" Mozzie stated simply. "I have no promises or guarantees."

"This is something Neal needs" Peter insisted, a smile creeping across his face at the prospect of a solution. "I'll take anything you can get." Mozzie seemed to share no such enthusiasm, continuing on in a low breath.

"And I hope you know that a house call is your only option. There's no secret hospital of the underground. He's going to come to Neal's house, and he's going to do it there, right on his dining room table, maybe his couch if we're lucky. There's no anesthetic, no fancy pills, there's usually not even disinfectant. It's quick, dirty, and bloody. That's how this works, and if you can't stomach it, you'd be better off finding some other way to make this plan of yours go through" Mozzie said, crossing his arms as though to make a point. The imagery flashed through Peter's mind quickly, but he knew in his heart that nothing was worse than what he faced last night. Nodding solemnly, Peter confirmed his gesture with his words.

"I know what we're getting into, Mozzie. I'm ready for all of the responsibility. I understand what laws I'll be breaking, and I know exactly what this operation entails, for both me and for Neal."

"You do know the specs of the model that Neal has, don't you?" Mozzie exclaimed, uncrossing his arms just long enough to throw them into the air. "There's more to this than just a quick slice and dice. This is serious, this requires-"

"I know exactly what it requires" Peter interjected firmly. "That's why I said I know what it means for both of us. When I said I'd do anything for Neal, I wasn't making that up. Just make whatever call you have to, and do it fast. I'll be with Neal until further notice. Don't bother knocking if you have to come in again, not like you usually do. Best of luck, Mozzie. Hoping to hear from you soon."

Then Peter walked away, back into the room where Neal was resting, leaving Mozzie out in the hall to do whatever he had to do, making sure to turn a blind eye.

 **-0-0-0-0-0-**

It took eighteen hours for Mozzie to stay true to his word, and for a heavy knocking to come to the door. The duration of the day had been Peter and Neal discussing menial things, such as art, the cityscape, or what to have for lunch. Both of them knew that they were truly acting on a matter of diversion, unwilling to delve into the deeper, more serious truths that came with their current reality. Peter had even been entertained by Neal drawing a caricature of himself and the team, complete with bright pencil strokes and large smiles.

The darker notes were covered up quickly, such as smudging away some of the last drops of blood that Peter had missed the night before, or Neal hastily explaining the purpose of the piles of bandages on the top of the fridge. Solemnly enough, they were what he had been binding his body with every morning to ensure that he didn't bleed through his suits, holding his skin closed at the office with layers of tight wrapping. Included in this darkness were the moments that Peter had taken to insist that Neal bandage his hands, in just a small attempt to get him to stop the nervous scratching that was only making him bleed worse.

But now that the long-awaited arrival was at the door, Neal perked up his head, clearly expecting a visit from a well-known friend, likely Mozzie or June. But Peter knew the truth of what lay beyond the threshold, and for that reasoning he was the one that got up from the table and answered the door, opening it carefully to observe who lay beyond.

A man of an age similar to Peter's own stood waiting outside, a smart backpack on his back, and a cold-weather jacket wrapped around him. He was dressed well, and had Peter seen him on the street in passing, he would have assumed that this man was nothing more than another cog in the machine of some busy business that lived in the heart of New York. He had the appearance of someone that had lived in the city for quite a while, from the worn look he had in his eyes, and the stench of desperation that clung to him like a fog. There was no doubt that this was the man that Mozzie had sent for, as removed as he appeared from criminal activity. Peter turned back towards the interior of the penthouse, but the man walked in, introducing himself curtly.

"I'm The Veterinarian, call me Vet. I was called here by a man named Hoover. I was given the details of the procedure, and the risks and participants involved. I assume that both parties consent. Now that that's out of the way, let's get started, shall we?" The man rushed through this briskly, already dropping his backpack to the floor and looking around the room, as though he were scoping out the perfect place for the operation. Peter could feel his own eyes go wide, but he felt the glare coming from Neal even stronger.

"Peter, what is this man doing in my house?" The weaker man questioned, struggling to rise from where he sat, obviously in pain as he moved. Peter only furrowed his brows, ready to put the truth forward as plainly as he could manage.

"This is the solution to the problem we're facing. I didn't want you to do this to yourself, so I called in someone who's supposedly a bit of an expert. This is for you, Neal. I'm going to be with you through this. We're going to take care of this problem once and for all. I swore that to you last night, and I will again. Now let the man get set up; we have a long night ahead of us."

"I never asked for this" Neal protested weakly, staring at the strange man as he made his way around the room as though he owned it. "I didn't need a man like _this_ to help me get out of it. I'm perfectly competent on my own, I swear that I am. I could have handled it. I was handling it, and I was doing a fine job."

"But I made this decision" Peter said firmly, crossing his arms. "This was my choice. You're my partner, and sometimes, I feel like I know what's best for you more than you do."

"Do you even know what this means?" Neal exclaimed, running one hand through his hair in a sudden show of exasperation. "I wasn't ready yet. This tracking chip, it has more complications than you would think. Just like if you cut my anklet, it would set of an alert, the chip is temperature sensitive. If you take it out of my body, as soon as it turns colder than ninety-five degrees, it sends an alert out. I hadn't figured a way to take care of that yet, that's why I wasn't ready." Taking this news seriously, Peter motioned for Neal to sit back down, and offered his own information solemnly, ready to stomach his choice in front of the CI.

"That's why I'm here, Neal. The chip isn't staying in you, but it has to stay in someone. You'll be free. I'll carry the burden until we find a better solution." To this news, Neal did sit down, letting his head hang low.

"Peter, you aren't saying-"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Until this meets its end, I'm going to be the temporary host to your tracking device. I had the whole night to plan this out, and I'm ready for the consequences. For most of the work day we're together, so it won't be a problem. At nights, I'll stay at your place. We can't get caught, and we won't." When he said those words, Peter nearly believed them, knowing that the plan was shaky at best. Neal let out a low groan, staring at the Veterinarian with narrowed eyes.

"This is crazy. I can't let you do this, I can't-" Neal stopped there, running a hand over his abdomen hesitantly.

"But you can" Peter comforted coldly, standing up and pulling the chairs away from the dining room table. "You don't have a choice. You deserve to be free. I've already made up my mind. This guy is cleared by Mozzie, which must mean he's good enough in your world. So let's get this over with, alright?" Still pulling pieces of the room to the side, their guest opened his bag and pulled out plastic sheets, laying them over the table and floor, and then over the couch.

It was easy to see Neal swallowing, as though he were uncertain of these actions altogether. Peter knew that it looked like they were setting up for a murder, rather than a small surgery. Although he believed earlier that he had already worked through the worst of his personal anxiety, his heart was starting to beat quickly again. In an attempt to suppress that, he cast a nervous smile at Neal, who was still wide-eyed.

"So, take your pick. Couch or table?"

 **-0-0-0-0-0-**

The wood of the table was hard and uncomfortable beneath his back, but perhaps what was more uncomfortable was the cold air rushing over his naked chest. The small tray containing sharp tools and pads of gauze were resting close to his head, and the weight of their presence was nearly static. Neal was lying on the couch, which had been moved to just a few paces away, although his body was out of sight. Peter knew that the choice of the couch was more favorable, but the small discomfort of the table was nothing close to what he would soon be suffering.

The Vet was sitting on a chair by the couch, and it was easy to hear Neal's low groans, which were quickly tsked by the man working on him. Other than the initial statement by the supposed 'doctor', the man had been largely silent, getting down to his business without conversation or formalities. While Peter was tempted to doubt his faith in a man pulled off the streets with a scalpel in his hands, he knew that he had little choice in the matter of trust.

He imagined Elizabeth's face, and then various cases, and then even his dog, all to take his mind off the subtle noises of pain coming from across the room. At the same time, he did so to suppress his own dread, knowing that soon enough it was his gut that was going to be cut open, and a small device forcefully inserted. He couldn't begin to imagine the pain, so he instead chose to daydream as best he could in such a hostile environment.

That came to an end soon enough, as light footsteps made their way to the edge of the table. A tray was set down, and Peter looked up to meet the eyes of the man who had just cut open his friend. The Vet offered no smiles, only a consoling grimace as he reached for one of the sharp instruments lying beside Peter's head.

"Like I told your friend, don't stop breathing, try not to tense up. It makes it harder for me to cut. We have to do this quick, or it'll get to cold" the man said curtly, placing the blade up against Peter's skin. The agent did the best he could do brace himself, but there was only so much grinding his teeth together could do. Suddenly, the right side of his abdomen felt as though it burst into flames as the scalpel dug in.

There was no sound as the layers of skin were cut through neatly, but Peter felt as though he was on fire, almost as though molten silver was being poured across his skin. He tried to focus on the touch of the hands on the skin surrounding the wound, but it was so much more painful to feel his own blood leaking from the opening, and the fingers making their way inside of him. In that moment, he wanted to scream, but he thought on how stoically Neal was suffering, nearly silently, and bit his tongue.

The pain was so severe that it became impossible to tell when the actual device was slipped inside of his body, for every movement caused a great deal of pain. In fact, Peter could feel the blood leaking steadily with each breath, the rivets of crimson splashing against the canvas that had been laid out beneath his body. The very last thing that he was worried about was the comfort of the table, as he had been so focused upon earlier. Now he could feel nothing but agony, and he couldn't let out more than a low groan.

Even when the stitching began, it didn't feel as though it were over. The sensation of his skin being tugged back together was distinct, but it didn't ease the pain. Peter hungered for some sort of relief, something to just take the edge off the sensation, but he knew none was to come. Biting down on his tongue only made the pain worse, as it was already bleeding from his efforts to keep silent.

Just when it felt as though it would never be over, The Vet pressed down a thick pad over the site of the wound, pressing heavily. With brief instruction, he guided Peter's hands to it, and began to move back over to the couch.

"I still have to stitch up your partner. Moving the chip was the top priority" the man explained, to which Peter recognized as the reason that Neal was still groaning. It was hard to imagine that Neal had been left with the gaping wound for such a long period of time, and only hoped that the CI hadn't lost too much blood through the incident.

By focusing on stopping the bleeding stemming from his own incision, Peter was able to make the time pass rather quickly, up until the man walked back over, sliding the latex gloves off of his hands with a sharp snap. Peter opened his eyes, and listened to the short instructions that the man gave.

"Bind the incisions and change the dressing every few hours. As I'm sure you're aware, I am responsible for nothing beyond this point. You're both still conscious, and as far as we are all concerned, the movement of the device was successful. The payment has already been given in full by Mr. Hoover. May your injuries heal swiftly" the man said with a nod of his head, wiping off his bloody tools and sliding them back into his bag with a deft efficiency. Peter would have liked to say something, such as a hushed word of thanks, but nothing came to his lips except another low groan. Within another thirty seconds, the man and his tools were gone, leaving only the blood-soaked plastic sheets behind, which Peter assumed that they were now responsible for disposing of.

While it would have been wonderful to have gotten up and given Neal a warm embrace, or simply gotten up to get a drink, it was obvious to Peter that neither of them were going to move any time soon. The bandages and wrappings were right beside either of the men, but the bleeding had yet to cease completely, as did the blinding pain. It was incomparable to being shot, for in this case there was no adrenaline high, no supreme drive pushing his actions. It was just Peter, Neal, and the surfaces that they were laying on. In the end, it was Neal who piped up first, weakly.

"Peter, I'm sorry…"

"Again, with the apologies" the older man muttered, trying to clear his head and push back nausea. "No big deal. I just hope that you have some ibuprofen here." This warranted a small chuckle from both parties, as though a joke could ward off the futility of their predicament.

"I should be up in another five minutes, how about you?" Neal asked, although Peter doubted the number, he gave a rough estimate of his own.

"I'd say about the same. We can clean up in the morning. Right now we need to get these cuts taken care of, get some water, and go to bed. We'll feel better in the morning" Peter assured, though he once more felt doubt in his own words. His head was still swimming, as though he were intoxicated, but without any of the numbness. He would know, for his side was still burning fiercely. Neal spoke again, somehow his voice seeming stronger.

"Thank you, and I seriously mean thank you. You didn't have to do this-"

"I did" Peter interrupted, not wanting to hear another word on the matter. "I did have to do it. And don't thank me yet. We could still both be in a lot of trouble. I just have to make this work right, and everything will turn out okay. I just have two favors to ask of you" Peter rasped, knowing that both of the requests were rather hefty. Neal seemed eager to answer, and did not hesitate in his reply.

"Anything, anything at all."

"First, I'm going to ask that Elizabeth and I get your bed. She's obviously going to stay if I'm staying. She wouldn't stand not being with me for however long this takes. And the second request is just, please, please don't run. I know you're already thinking about it. I'm just asking you not to. Can you do that for me?" The sound of swallowing was clear in the silent room, but Neal replied without a pause.

"Of course, Peter. I won't leave you. Not like this. Not after all of this. I'm your partner. I'm with you to the end." The words may have been weak, but their conviction was plain. Peter smiled at the words, finding that some of his tense muscles relaxed at the promise.

"Good. That's good. Now, my wife will be here soon, and she won't be happy. I called her right before this happened, and Mozzie went to pick her up. She just cares too much about us. She's going to yell for a little, but then we won't be allowed to leave bed for three days. Are you ready for that?" Peter asked, knowing that his wife would be all but thrilled at the situation. Neal chuckled, which then elicited a groan.

"I'm ready for anything. Besides, like you said, we have a long road ahead of us. Looks like that starts tonight."

 **Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this story! The support I've gotten is absolutely incredible. I sincerely appreciate every single favorite, follow, and review that this story gets. They all mean the world to me! All I can say is that I hope you enjoyed, and have a wonderful rest of your day.**


	8. Chapter 8

"…And the court rules that the implantation of any device, such as a GPS tracking device, is a breach of bodily autonomy, and requires the explicit consent of the individual that any mandate may be directed upon. Neal Caffrey is permitted the immediate removal of the device at his own discretion, without the forward selection of medical professional, and will be returned to a tracking anklet immediately. The location services in the current implantation are to be henceforth completely disabled, and the implantation rendered inactive. At this point, no select criminal charges will be brought against the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the implementation of this device, but a monetary compensation for the removal of the device will be rewarded as soon as possible to the affected party."

Peter felt a smile cracking over his face, and he couldn't help but look to Neal. The CI had turned to face him from where he sat, a wide grin stretching his cheeks, his eyes glittering with the joy of a small child. Although the tracking device was no longer held within Neal's body, to be allowed to be free of the burden legally was a small victory in itself. Peter knew that the last three months of walking on eggshells to fool the world had finally paid off, all of that struggling had finally come to fruition. They had won.

There would be no more nights with Elizabeth curled up alongside him in a bed that wasn't theirs, with Neal snoring loudly on the couch just a few paces from where they lay. There wouldn't be any more rushed breakfasts; three of them crammed around a table that was spilling over with art supplies or strange projects at any given moment, the yellow lab nosing at their knees and laying claim to any scraps. No more unexpected visitors in the middle of the night, or afternoons of wine tasting with Mozzie. The chaotic warmth that had developed would dissipate, but with it would come peace.

Peter knew that they had grown closer than ever, and he knew that they would all be sad to watch that go. As comforting as personal space and Peter's own home would be, to have a family that was more than just his wife and a dog had been an experience, to say the least. There was something natural in waking up and launching into warm chaos; smiling at Neal and El across the breakfast table, elbows knocking as they each reached for the cereal, passing the jug of milk, jostling for spoons and jam and toast and all the other assortments. Perhaps most entertaining were the arguments over coffee, lighthearted on Peter's part, but vehement when it came to Neal and Elizabeth and their morning brews.

Hectic may have been a kind way to put it, but it was undeniably _right_. To break apart the disjointed family that they had become, it would sting, but it would set the world back to its proper axis. Peter was glad that he could soon shed the burden lodged within his skin, though he was less than thrilled to be split open again. He knew that the pain was a small price to pay for such a victory, for he had won, truly won.

 _No_ , Peter corrected silently in his mind. _They_ had won. He and Neal, they had beat the system that had been fighting against the informant since the very start. For once, Peter was seeing Neal's side of the world, his eyes cautious, his movements painstakingly careful. Every passing soul was a threat, and each footstep that he took could be a misstep. And once more, Peter had pitied the man and the way of life to which he had been reduced through crime. But now, Neal beaming at him from his chair as the court session drew to a close, Peter had not a sliver of doubt that the suffering had been worth it.

 **-0-0-0-0-0-**

Two days later Peter shifted uncomfortably in his kitchen, letting Elizabeth press the back of her hand against his forehead. Although the bandages were warm under his shirt, the discomfort was much less than he had expected. The 'procedure' had gone smoothly, once more completed on Neal's dining table by that same mysterious man, but this second time had been much more promising and relieving.

Now that they were back in the comfort of their home, Elizabeth wasted no time in both cleaning and fussing over Peter like the world was going to end. His favorite meal was sitting in front of him on the table, a warm casserole still steaming, beside a mug of fresh coffee. Somehow, as content as he was, the silence of just him and his wife was too stark in the contrast to what their life had become. Elizabeth must have sensed his contemplation, for she rubbed a hand across his back, her voice questioning.

"You miss him, don't you?" She asked, drawing him into her arms. Looking up at her with raised brows, Peter could only manage to return a question of his own.

"Miss him? Neal?" As the words left his mouth, he knew that he had answered El's question, for she gave a small smile and sat down on the chair next to him, wrapping her arms around him even tighter.

"I knew it," she whispered into his ear, and Peter could feel her smile pressing up against his cheek as she kissed him. "I knew you'd miss him. Well, I don't think you have to worry. You know he'll be over here just like always. Besides, you're partners, right?"

"He's a criminal informant," Peter responded out of reflex, but he knew how flat the words came out on his tongue. Elizabeth laughed again, then stood, pointing towards Peter's casserole with an open hand.

"Why don't you eat your casserole and swallow those lies with it? We know that you think more of him than that. And like I said, he'll be over here by breakfast tomorrow morning anyway. These last few months have been absolutely crazy, and I still can't believe what you did for him. Having him as a part of our lives was really nice and… interesting." She trailed of there, her face scrunching as she thought back on their time living in Neal's penthouse.

Peter was tempted to reply with his own definition of the word 'interesting,' but figured it best to comply with his wife's request and shoveled a spoonful of warm food into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before washing it down with coffee. Elizabeth continued gently, a small smile still on her face.

"As nice as that was, I'm glad to have you back to me in one piece, without anything stuck inside of either you or Neal. You two make enough trouble for yourselves just by walking this earth. Sometimes you hook me into it, but I don't think I mind. Are you sure you're feeling okay?" El finished with a question, and Peter could see her cheeks flushing with excitement as she talked about the family that the three had become. To see her joy, Peter was unable to contain a slight smile, knowing the joy that his wife was brought by his partnership with Neal, despite the struggles and the worry.

Just then, breaking the moment, the door sounded with a heavy knocking. Before Peter even let the sigh slip past his lips, he heard a familiar voice calling to him through the wood, sounding rather enthusiastic.

"Hey, Peter, are you in there? I grabbed your paper on the way up, and right there on the front page it talks about a new coffee shop opening up. Why don't you let me in and we can talk about it," Neal called loudly from the front step. Peter sighed, and El couldn't do anything but laugh.

"Or maybe we won't have to wait until tomorrow morning," she joked, stepping around Peter to move towards the door. Hanging his head and sighing, Peter longed momentarily for a bit more peace. But then he realized that he would rather it no other way, for he had all the things he needed; a beautiful wife, a roof over his head, a wonderful job, and a family that he trusted and loved with all of his heart, a love so strong that it ached.

 **-fin-**

 **Thank you all SO MUCH for the incredible, amazing, outstanding support on this little story. The follows, favorites, and reviews all really mean the world to me and made my life a whole lot brighter. A special round of thanks to everyone who supported me through reviews, especially suicidalunicorn97, sblack78, caseylf123, Lacadiva, kayecooper, marJan53, Ashley5627, godschild4ever, Wondo, adoptarescue, Inks Inc, annshe, Ikspires, Barb, JimChou, and any anonymous guest reviewers that have taken the time to review. It just blows my mind to think that people out there actually sit down and take the time to read something that I wrote, and then they take more time just to tell me that they like it. Really, it means the world and more to me, and infinite thanks to every single person that wrote a review, and even more so to those folks that supported me with each chapter I posted. Once more, a huge and final thank you to everyone who has taken the time to become involved in this story. May you all have the best of days.**


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